


Who Says the Quality of Mercy is Not Strained?

by resolute



Category: Clocktaur War Series - T. Kingfisher
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Heist, Lovers to Friends, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:15:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21722839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/resolute/pseuds/resolute
Summary: Pre-canon heist, Slate and Brenner and the Stone Bitches and shenanigans!
Comments: 18
Kudos: 57
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Who Says the Quality of Mercy is Not Strained?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sour_Idealist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sour_Idealist/gifts).



Slate woke to the sound of a bootheel deliberately scraped across the wood floor of her rented room. Why a deliberate scrape should sound different from an accidental one, Slate could not, in that half-awake moment, determine. She lay very still in the dark, hoping her breathing hadn't changed on waking. Anyone sneaking into a notorious criminal's bedroom -- for Slate was, she was forced to admit, a notorious criminal -- and then choosing to wake up said criminal with ominous boot-scraping theatrics, was not likely to shower her with cuddly puppies and good whiskey.

Not that Slate wanted puppies, at any time. Though whiskey would always be welcome.

"Darlin', you snort when you wake up. Sit up and get a candle, we have a job."

Slate groaned and sat up. As she fumbled for the bedside candle, she could see the dim outline of Brenner sitting on the room's only chair. "Dammit, Brenner," Slate muttered. "You could've knocked."

"Where would be the fun in that?"

Slate found the matches, found the candle, fumbled the candle back into the candle-holder, lit the candle, and completely failed to set her hair on fire despite the vigorous efforts of said hair. The dim light revealed Brenner, who had been uncharicteristically silent, to be slowly rolling a cigarette. He gestured for the candle. Slate sat up in bed and handed it over. After the cigarette was properly lit, Brenner sat back. He was smiling, but, then, Brenner was nearly always smiling. It didn't signify.

"You're in a spot of trouble, Slate."

"I don't see how that's the case, since I've been blamelessly asleep," Slate said. "Are you sure you don't mean  _ you _ are in trouble?"

Brenner waved a hand expansively, dismissing this quibble. "We're a team. What's mine is yours. And what's yours is mine. Or, at least, that's what the Stone Bitches told me."

Slate's eyes widened. She sat up straighter and pushed her hair back out of her eyes. "Wait, what?"

"Mercy herself. Told me to my face. Said, 'we want your girlfriend who does the paperwork.'"

"Not your girlfriend, Brenner," Slate interjected. "Never have been."

"-- a fact I imparted to her immediately, darlin', but you know how people make assumptions."

"Hmph."

"Mercy wants to see you, and she wants to see you now, and she thought I would convey the urgency of the message to you."

Slate was already reaching for her mud-brown over-robe. "And how were you to convey this urgency? Does she think you'll tie me up and carry me?"

"No," Brenner said, chuckling. "She said I should show you this." Brenner held out his left hand, the one not holding the cigarette. Slate realized with a sick twist in her stomach why it had taken Brenner so long to roll the tobacco, why he'd asked for the candle to light it. Human fingers, by and large, did not have those extra bends in them.

"Oh my god. Brenner. We need to splint that, right now." 

"Pfft. Just the littlest finger. Doesn't hardly throw off my aim at all."

"Idiot." Slate found her small supply of bandages and slaves. She quickly bound Brenner's smallest finger to the adjacent one. "There."

"Thanks," Brenner said. "It's hard to do that yourself."

"Yeah, well, let's not have any other body parts pulled out of where they're supposed to be, right?" Slate said, picking up her work satchel.

"It's good to have goals."

***

The Stone Bitches held a generous section of the northeastern side of the city. Half the docks, most of the houses of prostitution, and a decent handful of gambling halls belonged to the women who had allied their forces decades earlier. Their crime empire had been stable for as long as Slate remembered. An occasional spat over the precise ownership of individual boat slips, sure, but nothing catastrophic. Slate led the way through now-quiet streets to The Ginger Puss, the brothel housing the offices of the youngest Stone Bitch, Mercy.

A quiet word with the doorman had Slate and Brenner escorted through the kitchens to the stables out back. Up a narrow stair, past the hay loft, they ended up in front of a small door. The girl leading the way knocked twice, then turned to leave. "Enter," a voice called.

Slate opened the door. She walked into a quiet, clean office, well-lit with multiple oil lanterns. A couch occupied one side, the sort that Slate's mother had kept in their private room, something too shabby for paying customers to see but perfectly good for everyday use. The other side held a large set of shelves, full of neatly organized ledgers, books, scrolls, and lockboxes. Slate's fingers itched. She tried to not stare, and knew she was failing.  _ Just imagine what is in those ledgers …  _ Directly in front of her was a mid-sized desk, covered in the everyday detritus of a working business. The woman sitting behind the desk was dressed in day clothes. She'd either not gone to bed or risen at an hour that counted as yesterday. Neither prospect, Slate considered, conducive to good humor and pleasant conversations. Mercy smiled at Slate, gesturing at the wooden chairs in front of the desk. "Slate. Brenner. Please, do sit down."

"Mercy," Slate replied, nodding. She sat and looked attentively at the other woman. She'd only ever seen her at a distance before. Up close, Mercy's trademark red hair was shot through with white. The lines of her face made her look serious and thoughtful, not worn out the way so many women in her former profession ended up looking. Her boots were very expensive, Slate noted, but the rest of her clothes were of an ordinary mid-level quality. Nice enough to be worth mending, not so nice as to attract pickpockets.

Not that anyone would pick Mercy Stone's pocket.

Not anyone local, anyway.

Not more than once.

"Thank you for coming so promptly," Mercy said.

"Your invitation was clear," Slate answered.

Mercy didn't apologize. "You've refused to work with us before."

"So I have."

To Slate's surprise, Mercy smiled. "Your mother always was vindictive."

Slate blinked. "Not … not that I am aware of … ?"

"But it was her who told you not to deal with us, correct? What did she say, that we wouldn't pay? That we were unreliable?"

"That you were quicker to hurt people than I wanted to be involved with, actually," Slate said. She managed to not look at Brenner or his hand.

Mercy waved one hand, brushing away this point. "A minor difference in tactics. It's all water under the bridge, at this point. Bygones. You're here now, and I am prepared to pay well for your services."

"Bygones. Of course," Slate said dryly.

"I need a deed of sale," Mercy said. "From the old Dauphin of Restfail, to my shipping company, of three schooners. It needs to have been four years ago."

"That doesn't seem like a problem," Slate said cautiously.

"It needs to be found tomorrow morning in the vaults of the capitol library archives when the new Dauphin sends his accountants into the archive to find it."

"What?" Slate yelped. She sat up very straight. "You want  _ what _ ?"

"Shouldn't'a twisted my finger, in that case," Brenner drawled.

***

Slate pinched the bridge of her nose, rubbing at her eyes. It wasn't dawn yet, but it would be soon. She looked down at the document hanging on a drying rack in front of a tallow lamp on Mercy's desk. "Just a moment more," she said. "Let the smell penetrate."

"You're certain this will pass inspection?" Mercy asked, handing Slate a mug of hot spiced rum. 

Slate grimaced. "You didn't have to hire me, you know," she said, "if you have concerns about the quality of my work."

"Humor me," Mercy replied, sitting behind her desk. "Run it by me again."

"Four years ago, there was a parchment shortage in Restfail. Cattle blight or something. So the parchment used in commercial documents was recycled. Sanded clean and used again. The thin spots created blots where the ink spread too far. That dates the parchment correctly."

"Go on," Mercy said, sipping her own drink.

"The archives use oil lamps, like everyone else. But the clerks in the processing rooms have tallow lamps half the time due to budget cuts. And the clerks keep getting borrowed by other enterprises, so there's always a backlog of documents to be registered and filed. They sit there, for weeks sometimes, and the tallow lamp smell gets into them. Walking through the archives is like walking through a chandler's shop."

"It really is," Brenner added. "A chandler's shop on rendering day."

"I do appreciate professionals with experience in their field," Mercy remarked.

Slate took down the document. She folded it into fifths, then placed it on the floor and stomped on it. Picking it up, she licked her fingers and folded and unfolded the document ten times. She dipped her fingers into her rum and wiped them on the bottom edge. Folding it up one more time, Slate added a cream-colored wax seal to the edge. As the wax melted onto the page, she pressed a signet stamp into the disc. It dried quickly. Slate broke the seal and flattened the document one last time. Taking up her pen, she hurriedly annotated the upper margin with the filing and routing numbers of the archive, imitating the manner of a clerk who only wanted to get home in time for dinner.

"There," she said wearily. "Brenner, you're up."

Brenner stood. He casually folded the forgery into fifths again and stuffed it inside his vest pocket. "Right," he said easily. "Meet you back at your place for breakfast?"

Mercy cleared her throat. "I'm afraid that Slate will be breaking fast here, at least until you return safely."

"Really?" Slate asked. "Is that necessary? I don't think that's necessary."

"I insist."

"Afraid I'll get all resentful-like about my finger, and screw you over?" Brenner asked. His voice was light and casual. Slate couldn't see his eyes.

"It did occur to me," Mercy said.

"You wouldn't have these problems if you used a different business model," Slate muttered.

Brenner shrugged. "I'll be back in time for an omelet," he said. He walked to the door. "Stay safe, darlin'." His voice could have chilled an ice-house. Slate blinked in mild confusion at his tone.

"I think that remark was aimed at me," Mercy said as the door closed.

"Can't imagine why," Slate said.

Mercy looked thoughtfully at Slate. "He likes you."

"Brenner doesn't like anyone," Slate replied automatically.

Mercy raised an eyebrow.

Slate sighed. "He dislikes me less than he dislikes other people. You, for instance."

"With killers, sometimes, it's not any safer to be liked by them than otherwise."

"So my mother mentioned." Slate sipped her spiced rum. "More than once."

"Vindictive woman," Mercy said. "Smart, but vindictive." She looked into her mug. "Always did like your mother."

Slate choked slightly.  _ I do not want to know more about that, _ she told herself firmly.  _ No, I absolutely do not. _

***

The kitchens of The Ginger Puss were just the sort Slate remembered from childhood. Most brothel kitchens were of a similar build. The big fireplace and stove for everyday cooking, the specialty range for fancy meals. The big table where the girls sat before their shifts. The endless kettle, always ready with hot tea. 

Slate sat on one end, nursing her tea and picking apart a scone. Good brothels -- and The Ginger Puss was definitely a good brothel -- fed their employees well. That generosity usually extended to tradespeople, delivery urchins with discreet packages, constables, and the other people whose errands were essential to any business. The cook, a nondescript man of middling years with none of the flamboyance or temper usually ascribed to cooks, was busy with the morning meal and left Slate alone.

Her mother had warned Slate repeatedly to stay away from killers. They were more trouble than they were worth, she insisted. But she hadn't specified in what way. Slate pondered Brenner's words as he had left to break into the archive. There'd been a tension in him that had set Slate's nerves jangling. They'd stopped sleeping together a few months ago. It had been pleasant enough sex, a warm way to pass the time on a cold night. Slate had never considered that Brenner might have invested more into the activity than just sex. She certainly hadn't.  _ Don't get involved with killers. _ Her mother's warning echoed in Slate's head.  _ But we weren't  _ involved _ , it was just sex, _ Slate thought defensively.  _ Surely Brenner hadn't cared more than that. _

_What would Brenner do,_ _if he returned and I was … harmed?_ Slate imagined it. She couldn't think of a scenario that didn't end with multiple murders. Maybe even a spree killing. Slate watched the cook as he mixed fresh herbs into eggs. Possibly even extending to killing the cook, if Brenner was very … inspired.

_ But that can't be my fault. That can't be on me, what Brenner does. How he feels. _ Yet, somehow, Slate felt vaguely that it might be. Her fault somehow. If Brenner murdered an entire brothel on her behalf.

_ No, _ Slate told herself firmly.  _ No. That's not on me. If I'm dead, what Brenner does next is between Brenner and his hypothetical gods. _

She finished the scone -- dried berries, very tasty -- decisively.  _ Brenner's feelings are not my responsibility. _ She would tell herself that as often as needed, until she believed it.  _ Don't get involved with killers. My mother was absolutely right about that. Even if they like you. Especially if they like you. And I can't control whether they like me or not. That's not my problem. _

Unwillingly, Slate recalled Mercy's words. "Always did like your mother."  _ No. Certainly she didn't mean it that way. My mother didn't get involved with killers. She had a policy. And Mercy is definitely a killer. _

Unless Slate's mother had developed that policy for a reason. Every rule has a cause, an origin. Slate's mother had decided to not get involved with killers after … after what?  _ Everybody's got to have one killer in their life, just to learn what a bad idea it is,  _ Slate thought. She shook her head.  _ That's stupid. Plenty of people don't consort with murderers,  _ she told herself irritably.  _ Certainly not my mother. _ Slate thought, in rapid succession, about whether her shoes needed another coat of waterproofing, when she was going to buy new parchment, when her menstrual cycle was going to come due, whether she wanted to try that herbal concoction that supposedly made said cycle less frequent, where the lemon-seller's cart was currently located, and definitely  _ not at all _ about whether her mother had ever been courted  _ (there was a nice euphemism, let's stick with that _ ) by Mercy of the Stone Bitches.

Slate looked up as the scullery door opened and Brenner sauntered in. He brushed the damp off his shoulders -- was it raining? It must be raining -- and grinned at Slate. "Hey darlin'. Told you I'd be in time for breakfast."

Slate nodded to Brenner. "So you are. Any trouble?" There, that was nice and professional. Just another job. No  _ involvement _ , whatever that might mean, with the killer who was her business collaborator and former sexual partner.

"Not worth speaking of," he replied. "You?"

"Not a whiff of a problem," Slate said. "We're good. Mercy paid us, and said we're welcome to eat here." She waved at the bench opposite her. "Have a seat."

Brenner smirked. "Aww, you don't want me to sit next to you? I'm cold and wet, you could warm me up." He shook the rain off his sleeves and sat opposite her, even as the innuendo left his lips.

Slate rolled her eyes. "Shut up, Brenner."


End file.
